UC-NRLF 


L  I  T  T  L  E    I  T  A 

A  T  R  A  0 

BY 
HORACE    B. 


IMKIIIV 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CAUfOtWU 


LITTLE    ITALY 


Mrs.  Minnie  Maddern  Fiske 
as  Giulia  in  "Little  Italy." 


LITTLE 
ITALY 

A    TRAGEDY 

IN     ONE 

ACT 

BY 
HORACE    B.    FRY 


NEW    YORK 

R.    H.    RUSSELL 

MCMII 


LOAN  STACK 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
HARRISON  GREY  FISKE 


PSvm 


PREFACE 


HEN  a  play  has  found  favor  not 
only  with  the  public  but  with 
many  of  the  critics,  there  may  be 
a  valid  reason  for  printing  it,  for 
somehow  the  world  is  disposed  to 
withhold  the  rank,  no  matter  how 
humble  the  work  might  be  en 
titled  to,  until  it  shall  have  emerged 
in  type  and  between  binder's  boards. 

Some  years  ago  Punch  gave  a  picture  of  several  enthu 
siastic  amateurs  gloating  over  a  very  old  violin.  They 
are  eulogizing  its  admirable  construction,  its  beautiful 
lines,  graceful  neck,  even  the  pegs  seemed  to  come  in 
for  their  share.  It  is  at  the  moment  when  an  unappre- 
ciative  Philistine,  who  happened  to  be  present,  is  asking: 
"  But  how  will  it  sound?  "  The  picture  shows  the  indig 
nation  of  the  group  which  believes  it  is  squelching  the 
Philistine's  impertinence  with :  "  Look  at  the  varnish !  " 

When  a  play  in  type  is  under  inspection,  it  is  of  very 
small  consequence  that  its  construction  and  dialogue  may 
be  up  to  the  highest  literary  standard,  but  "  How  will  it 
act?  "  is  the  question,  and  nothing  atones  for  the  absence 
of  this  essential. 

Fortunately  for  the  author  of  "  Little  Italy,"  his  modest 
play  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Fiske.  This  lady,  with 


07€ 


PREFACE 

the  skill  of  a  Duse,  incarnated  his  ideas  so  thoroughly 
that  justice  requires  that  she  be  regarded  as  not  only  his 
interpreter  but  collaborator.  Equally  fortunate  was  he 
with  Mr.  de  Belleville,  whose  creation  was  worthy  of  a 
Salvini ;  and  to  Mr.  Tyrone  Power  the  author  also  admits 
his  acknowledgments.  Therefore  he  may  say,  with  all 
reserve:  the  question  of  "How  will  it  act?"  has  been 
settled. 

Before  the  passage  of  the  copyright  law  of  1891  there 
was  little  protection  and  no  property  that  was  unassail 
able  in  a  manuscript  play.  These  conditions  must  have 
existed  for  centuries.  Mr.  H.  W.  Mabie,  in  his  admirable 
life  of  Shakespeare,  says  of  the  Elizabethan  stage  (p.  140) : 
"These  plays  were,  in  some  instances,  not  even  printed; 
they  existed  only  as  unpublished  manuscripts.  In  many 
cases  a  play  did  not  exist  as  an  entirety  even  in  manu 
script;  it  existed  only  in  parts,  with  cues  for  the  different 
actors.  The  publication  of  a  play  was  the  very  last  thing 
desired  by  the  writer,  or  by  the  theatre  to  which  it  was 
sold  and  to  which  it  belonged,  and  every  precaution  was 
taken  to  prevent  a  publicity  which  was  harmful  to  the 
interests  of  author  and  owner.  Shorthand  writers  often 
took  down  the  speeches  of  actors,  and  in  this  way  plays 
were  stolen  and  surreptitiously  printed;  but  they  were 
full  of  inaccuracies — verse  passages  become  prose,  etc." 
But  in  our  day  we  have  changed  these  conditions. 

Inasmuch  as  reading  a  play  on  the  morrow  of  seeing 
it  is  a  delight — provided  it  is  a  good  play — we  are  led 
to  refer  to  the  opinions  of  one  if  not  the  greatest  of  modern 
dramatists,  Alexandre  Dumas,  fils.  He  has  recorded 


PREFACE 

them  on  the  subject  of  writing  and  printing  plays,  be 
lieving  their  value  and  interest  to  be  enhanced  if  in  type. 
His  prefaces  were  his  favorite  channels  wherein  the  social 
problems  exploited  on  his  stage  were  conveyed  as  his 
legacies  to  the  world — the  prefaces,  generally  as  long  as 
the  plays,  prove  the  beneficial  task  the  stage  can  perform. 
He  has  given  his  reflections  with  so  much  frankness  on 
this  subject  and  the  cognate  one  of  dramatic  writing  at 
the  hands  of  M.  Scribe,  that  it  has  been  thought  desirable 
to  translate  the  preface  to  "  Un  Pere  Prodigue,"  and  give 
it  as  an  entertaining  appendix  to  "  Little  Italy." 

The  copyright  law  is  now  beneficent  to  all  concerned — 
to  the  playwriter,  the  novelist,  the  manager,  and  the  pub 
lic.  The  latter  need  be  no  longer  cheated,  at  least  with  im 
punity,  by  barnstorming  organizations  and  pirated  plays. 
And  if  the  printed  novel  makes  the  most  welcome  or  pop 
ular  introducer  of  the  play  based  upon  it,  why  may  not 
an  original  play  introduce  itself,  stand  on  its  own  merits, 
and  secure  its  own  vogue?  That  the  play  is  not  such  easy 
reading  as  the  novel  is  conceded,  and  for  the  reasons 
M.  Dumas  details;  yet  much  of  the  difficulty  may  be  the 
fault  of  the  author  rather  than  the  reader.  At  all  events, 
the  fashion  of  former  times,  when  plays  were  read,  can 
come  round  again,  and  the  taste  of  a  past  century  can 
revive;  for,  since  leisure  is  growing  less  in  our  strenuous 
lives,  while  our  imaginations  were  never  so  alert,  the 
concentrated  form  of  the  play  that  the  laws  of  dramatic 
writing  exact  may  commend  it  to  the  readers  of  our  day 
who  have  little  time  to  luxuriate  in  the  amplitude  of  the 
novel. 


PREFACE 

With  apologies,  therefore,  the  author  presents  the  short 
domestic  tragedy  of  "  Little  Italy,"  claiming  that  it  truly 
depicts  an  obscure  form  of  life  in  New  York  City,  and 
that  such  a  woman  as  Giulia  really  lived  there.  Nostalgia 
is  a  malady  not  confined  to  rich  or  poor,  and  true  love, 
however  humble,  will  scour  the  world  to  find  its  lost 
object.  These  themes  appeal  to  all,  and  might  entertain 
the  reader  who  never  saw  the  play  enacted.  "  Little 
Italy  "  is  only  one  more  of  "  the  short  and  simple  annals 
of  the  poor."  H.  B.  F. 


First  performed  November  17,  1898,  at  the 

Grand  Opera  House,  Chicago,  by 

Mrs.  Minnie  Maddern  Fiske, 

Mr.  De  Belleville,  and 

Mr.  Tyrone  Power 


LITTLE      ITALY 

AN    ORIGINAL    TRAGEDY 
IN    ONE    ACT 


PLACE — The  Italian  Quarter  on  the  East  Side  of  the 
City  of  New  York. 


TIME — 1898. 


CHARACTERS 

FABIO  RINALDI a  fat  Italian  baker  of  forty 

MICHELE an  itinerant  singer  of  twenty -five 

(  Fabitf  s  wife,  a  nervous,  hard-working 

GlULIA <  _     ..  '   ' 

(          Italian  of  twenty-two 
GIOJA  RINALDI  . . .  a  girl  of  six  years,  step-daughter  of  Giulia 

All  speak  good  English  except  Michele. 


SCENE 

A  sordid  living-room,  with  a  closet-room,  L.,  on  the  fourth 
floor  of  a  tenement-house  of  five  floors. 

NOTE— In  the  basement  is  the  Italian  bakery  of  Fabio  Rinaldi,  which  is 
entered  from  the  street.  The  window  of  the  scene  opens  on  the  court. 
When  this  practicable  window  opens,  fire-escapes  and  drying  clothes 


A,  Bed. 

B,  Clothes-line  and  clothes  drying. 

C,  Door  opening  on  stairs. 

D,  Cooking-stove. 

E,  Door  to  dumb-waiter,  the  rope  is 

seen. 

F,  Window  overlooking  court. 


G,  Door  to  closet  where  Gioja  sleeps. 
H,  Dresser,  with  drawers. 
I,  I,  Two  candlesticks. 

K,  Chromo  of  the  Virgin— hanging 
on  the  wall. 

L,  Black  wooden  crucifix  hanging 
on  the  wall 


LITTLE    ITALY 


SCENE    FIRST. 


rise  of  curtain  GIULIA  is  discov 
ered  sitting  at  the  window. 
She  is  the  picture  of  a  humble 
toiling  young  Italian,  as  she, 
pensively  in  a  crooning  voice, 
intones: 

Quando  io  ricordo  bella  Napoli, 
Voglio  e  ti  ritorno,  oh!  citta  del 

del! 

Siamo  stranieri  e  pelegrini  qui, 
Poss'io  reveder  ancora  prima  io  mori.* 
[Her  voice  breaks  with  grief,  as  after  a  pause  she  resumes, 
in  low-pitched  tones:] 

Oh!  Napoli,  Napoli,  io  non  ti  vedro  piu.f 
[Despairingly  she  buries  her  face  in  her  hands,  while  the 
music  of  the  play  is  still  heard  on  muted  stringed 
instruments.] 

*  When  I  remember  beautiful  Naples, 
I  would  return  to  thee,  O  city  of  Heaven. 
We  are  strangers  and  pilgrims  here, 
Could  I  see  thee  again  before  I  die. 

t  O  Naples  !  Naples  !  I  shall  not  see  thee  more. 

[  i  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

[Enter  FABIO  RINALDI,  her  husband,  in  the  garb  of  a 
working  baker,  fresh  from  his  bakery.  He  is  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  and  his  trousers  are  white  in  places. 
He  is  carrying  a  pan  containing  their  dinner,  which 
he  sets  upon  the  stove.  He  approaches  her  a  tip-toe 
and  touches  her  shoulder.  She  jumps  up.] 

GIULI  A. 

Ah,  Fabio !  How  you  frighten !  Why  d'you  come  in 
like  that? 

FABIO  (contrite,  then  critical). 
I  was  thinking  Gioja  might  be  sleeping.  Diavolo! 
What's  the  matter?  Eh?  You  thinking  about  Napoli 
again?  Always  now  Napoli,  Napoli!  You  suppose  it 
nice  for  a  man  to  come  in  and  find  his  wife  always  cry 
ing  because  she  cannot  live  in  Italy? 

GIULI  A  (firmly). 

I  am  an  Italian.  I  cannot  be  an  American.  Even  every 
American  woman  you  see  on  the  street  wants  to  live  in 
Italy.  No  Italian  woman  wants  to  live  in  New  York. 
Not  one. 

FAB  10. 
Ah!  bah!  bah! 

Gl U  LI A. 

Not  one.    Do  you  bring  the  dinner  up  from  the  oven  ? 

FABIO. 
Si!     [Pointing  to  the  pan  on  the  stove.] 

G  i  u  L  i  A  (wearily) . 
I  did  not  know  it  was  dinner-time. 

[She  sets  the  table;  places  on  a  dish  the  pan  of  beef 

[   2   ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

and  potatoes;  gets  out  a  bottle  of  red  wine,  a  pitcher  of 
water,  and  glasses.  There  is  silence,  during  which 
FABIO  shows  he  is  greatly  disturbed.  Business.] 

F  A  B  I  O  . 

[Going  to  the  closet  door  and  quietly  calling.] 

Gioja ! 
Gi  u  LI  A  . 

No.  No.  Better  she  eat  nothing  to-day,  and  she  will 
be  well  to-morrow.  Let  her  go  to  sleep. 

FABIO. 
What  you  think  make  her  sick — eh? 

G  i  u  L  i  A  . 

What  makes  every  child  sick — eh?  I  tell  you  what 
makes  her  sick.  She  says,  "  Papa  give  me  apple,"  and 
you  give  her  a  big  green  apple.  Little  more  and  you 
have  to  get  a  doctor !  Eh  ? 

FABIO. 
Is  she  better? 

Giu  LI  A. 
Si !     Look  you  don't  give  her  more  of  the  same  sort. 

FABIO. 

No,  I  let  you,  I  will  not.  [Pause.  They  sit  at  table 
and  eat  in  silence.]  You  make  a  good  step-mother  to 
that  little  one.  [Pause.]  Sometimes  I  say  to  myself l 
"  Gioja  love  you  the  same  as  if  you  was  her  own  mother." 

GlU  LI  A. 

Gioja  would  not  know  the  difference  if  some  affanore 
of  a  busybody  did  not  tell  it  to  her.  [Pause,  while  they 
eat.}  Who  is  in  the  shop? 

[  3  1 


LITTLE     ITALY 

F  A  B  I  O  . 

Baldassare. 

G  i  u  LI  A  . 

Ah!  [With  an  Italian  exclamation.]  Does  that  Bal 
dassare  know  enough  to  go  in  when  it  rains?  .  .  . 
He  cannot  serve  a  customer. 

F  A  B  i  o  . 

Why  d'you  say  he  can't?  I  count  the  loaves  and  rolls 
before  I  leave  the  bakery.  See?  And  when  I  go  back 
I  count  'em  again,  and  what  is  not  there,  he  gives  me 
the  money  for. 

GIULIA  (petulantly). 
I  tell  you  a  dog  has  got  more  sense  than  Baldassare. 

F  A  B  i  o  (placatingly). 

He's  got  sense  enough  to  give  me  the  money  for  what 
is  not  there  when  I  count  the  loaves. 

GIULIA. 

Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  you're  satisfied,  for  I  am  not, 
the  way  that  man  works ;  he  cannot  send  up  my  coal  four 
flights  and  take  down  our  ashes.  Half  the  time  I  must 
work  the  rope  myself. 

FABIO  (slightly  sneering). 

Oh,  why  not?  You  can  work  a  rope  in  Napoli,  and 
you  can  work  an  oar,  too ;  I  hear  that.  And  you  go  out 
on  the  bay  with  a  street  singer. 

GIULIA. 

[After  an  exclamation  in  Italian.]  What  is  the  mat 
ter  with  you?  Is  the  oven  burnt  out?  What  is  the 
matter  in  the  cellar  ? 

[  4] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

F  A  B  I  O  . 

Nothing.     Nothing. 

G  i  u  L  i  A  (resentfully) . 
Well,  I  think  the  oven  must  be  burnt  out.    Eh  ? 

F  A  B  i  o  . 

Na!  Na!  Oven's  all  right.  [Sullenly.}  Bucefalo's 
gone  lame. 

G  i  u  L  i  A  . 

Ah!  Santa  Maria!  When  did  that  happen?  How 
will  you  deliver  the  bread?  Oh!  ...  Now  we 
cannot  go  to  Central  Park  next  Sunday.  Ah!  Those 
rich  swells  there;  they  won't  miss  us — [sadly] — us  poor 
people ! 

F  A  B  i  o  . 
[Sadly.]     I  give  thirty-five  dollars  for  that  horse. 

Gi  u  L i A  . 
And  you  got  a  warrant  with  him  that  he  is  sound. 

F  A  B  i  o  . 

Well,  they  do  not  'promise  to  stay  sound  forever. 
Eh? 

Gi  U  L I A  . 

You  must  get  another  horse  to  deliver  the  bread,  and 
that  will  cost  money  and  cut  down  our  profit. 

F AB i o . 

[Bringing  his  hand  down  on  the  table.]  I  make  my 
loaves  of  bread  too  big.  That's  the  truth. 

Gi  u  LI  A  . 

Then  make  'em  smaller.     .     .     .     Make  'em  smaller. 
[  5  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

F AB IO. 

Na!  Na!  In  Avenue  A  you  cannot  sell  smaller 
loaves.  If  I  try  to  sell  small  loaves,  do  you  know  what 
the  people  will  say?  Eh? 

GIULI A. 
And  what  will  they  say? 

F AB 10. 

"  That  damned  dago  is  putting  on  Sixth  Avenue  airs." 
And  they  will  get  up  a  Boycott !  You  don't  know  'em. 

GIULI A. 

No,  and  I  don't  want  to  ...  But  why'd  you  not 
learn  how  to  read  and  write?  Then  you'd  know  how 
soon  you'd  get  a  show  shop  in  Sixth  Avenue. 

F  A  B  i  o  . 

What  good  your  readin'  and  writin'  do — eh?  You 
know  what  I  did  hear  la  madalena — your  big  mother — 
say? 

GIULI A. 
She  said  a  good  many  things. 

FABIO. 

She  say :  "  I  spend  twenty  soldi  every  week  to  have 
Giulia  learn  to  read  and  write,  and  she  wants  to  go  marry 
a  street  singer." 

GIULIA. 
Na !    Na !    You  never  heard  her  say  that.    Na !    Na ! 

FAB  10. 

[Meaningly.]     I  did  not  hear  her  say  it. 
[6] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlULI A. 

Ah,  ha!     [With  a  shrug.} 

FAB  10 . 

But  she  did  say  that.  And  I  get  it  straight.  She  say : 
"  I  do  not  have  you  learn  read  and  write  to  marry  a 
street  singer." 

Giu  LI A. 

What  street  singer,  eh? 

FABIO. 
How  do  I  know  what  street  singer? 

GIULI A. 

If  I  like  a  street  singer  in  Napoli,  before  I  am  married, 
that  is  my  business ! 

FAB  10. 
And  you  go  on  the  bay  with  him.    I  hear  that. 

GIULI A. 

And  if  I  go  on  the  bay  with  some  one  in  Napoli,  be 
fore  I  am  married,  that  is  my  business,  too ! 

F  A  B  i  o  . 
Napoli !    Napoli !    Napoli !    Sempre  Napoli ! 

GIULI A. 

Si !  Si !  Si !  Si !  You  get  mad  because  I  do  not  love 
New  York,  and  you  wish  that  I  forget  Napoli,  eh?  Is 
it  not?  It  is  better  to  live  in  those  barracks  at  home 
than  on  Sixth  Avenue ! 

[FABIO  laughs  derisively,  and  mutters  in  Italian.} 

m 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlULI A. 

Now  I  tell  you  this,  Fabio  Rinaldi,  and  just  listen  to 
me :  Here  is  New  York !  Gas  here  better  than  oil — Si ! 
Here  I  cook  more  easy — So!  Hot  water  better  than 
cold ;  and  easier  to  pull  things  up  on  the  dumb-waiter 
than  to  break  the  back  to  carry  'em.  See!  But  I  tell 
you  [begins  to  sob  hysterically]  I  like  better  even  the 
dirt  of  Napoli  than  the  clean  of  New  York.  Ah,  Napoli ! 
Napoli !  Non  ti  vedro  piu. 

[FABIO  goes  to  her,  trying  to  soothe  her,  and  speak- 
ing  in  Italian.] 

Gl  U  LI A  . 

Na!     Na! 

[She  goes  to  the  dumb-waiter;  rings  the  bell;  a  tin 
kle  is  heard  below.  She  calls  in  a  long  Italian 
nasal  drawl.] 

Baldassare!     Hola!     Bal-das-sa-ret 

VOICE    HEARD    BELOW. 
Ecco !     Ecco !     Signora  Rinaldi ! 

G  i  u  LI  A  . 

You  send  me  no  more  coal  to-day.  .  .  .  Eh? 
You  understand? 

[Below.]     Si!     Si!     Capisco,  Signora!     Si!     Si! 

G  i  u  L  i  A  . 

From  here  to  Brooklyn  Bridge,  he  is  the  biggest  fool 
of  a  janitor. 

FABIO. 

[In  an  Italian  attitude.]  Well,  what  you  expect,  eh? 
For  twelve  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  a  month  rent, 

[  8  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

for  everything,  you  cannot  have  a  janitor  like  a  Waldorf 
dude,  with  brass  buttons  and  caprones  on  his  sleeves,  like 
that!  [Indicating  chevrons.] 

[FABIO  washes  his  hands.  GIULIA  begins  to  gather 
up  and  wash  the  dishes.  The  beginning  of  an 
accompaniment  on  a  mandolin  is  heard  and  then  a 
song,  as  if  sung  in  the  courtyard  below.  GIULIA'S 
attention  is  attracted.  She  pauses  at  first,  listen 
ing  mechanically.  Then  startled,  listens  with  in 
terest.  Her  expression  grows  soft  and  tender  in 
rapt  memories  of  Italy.  Then  the  expression 
changes,  and  she  hears  the  song  breathlessly. 
Gradually  the  truth  dawns  upon  her,  and  she  real 
izes  that  it  sounds  like  the  voice  of  MICHELE.  Her 
heart  almost  stops  beating.  She  seems  transfixed, 
and  trembles.  Unseen  by  FABIO  she  reaches  the 
window  and  leans  far  out.  Seeing  it  is  MICHELE 
she  remains  quite  still,  as  if  stunned.  Slowly  the 
realization  of  MICHELE'S  presence  bursts  upon  her. 
She  is  seized  with  wild,  almost  uncontrollable  joy. 
The  trembling  becomes  violent,  and  nearly  over 
comes  her.  Her  impulse  is  to  rush  to  MICHELE  in 
the  courtyard  below.  Then  comes  the  dull  re 
membrance  of  FABIO.  Gradually  regaining  her 
composure,  it  is  evident  she  is  considering  and 
planning.  She  leaves  the  window. 
[All  this  time,  FABIO,  absorbed,  has  been  figuring 
up  accounts  with  the  stump  of  a  pencil  in  an  old 
book  which  he  has  taken  up  after  having  washed 
his  hands.  Pause.] 

[9] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

SONG.* 
(Italian  setting  by  A.  Amadeo.) 

Napoli  bella,  Iddio  col  suo  sorriso, 

Dono  ti  fe  di  cielo  azzuro  e  mar. 
In  terra  piu  ridente  Paradise 

Mortale  che  desia,  ah  non  puo  trovar! 
Fra  il  profumo  dei  fieri  e  fra  1'ebrezza 

Che  scende  al  core  fra  le  tue  belta ! 
Fra  1'aura,  chi  olezza  su  te  dolce  citta, 

Volgere  il  pie  vorrei  1'esule  ancora 
Vagante  sconosciuto  in  straneo  suol, 

Senza  amor,  e  senza  speme  a  cui  dimora, 
Morte  nel  core  sofria  il  viso  il  duol ! 

Cuna  dei  sogni  miei  qui  ti  sospiro, 
L'anelito  nel  cor ! 

L'azzuro  cielo  non  rivedro !    No ! 
Le  belle  nubi  d'or ! 

Napoli  bella !    Ah  when,  when  may  I  see  thee  ? 

Napoli  bella !  the  turquoise  of  thy  sky. 

City  of  sunshine  where  the  hours  flee  in  glory, 

Absent  from  thy  scenes  of  love,  am  I  exiled  cruelly. 

Counting  the  hours  that  speed  so  slowly, 

Ere  I  may  hope  to  turn  toward  thee,  toward  thee ; 

Fevered  with  doubt,  a  stranger  to  contentment, 

Aimless  I  wander,  'mongst  faces  new  and  cold, 

Railing  at  fortune,  and  the  slave  of  blind  resentment, 

When  may  I  thee  see  again? 

*  The  music  of  "  Little  Italy  "  has  been  published  by  Howley,  Havi- 
land  &  Co.,  1260  Broadway,  New  York. 

[  10] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

Thy  bay  and  clouds  like  molten  gold, 
Must  I  aye  dwell  from  thee  apart? 
Thou  city  of  my  heart! 

G  i  u  L  i  A  (feverishly). 
Fabio ! 

F  A  B  i  o  . 
[Near  window  still  figuring  accounts. .]     Eh? 

GIULI A. 
Has  that  singing  man  gone  ? 

FABIO. 

[Glancing  from  window.]  Not  yet.  [Song  heard 
again.]  [FABIO  listens  intently.]  Ah,  listen!  [Pause.] 
Giulia,  that  is  your  song. 

GlULI A. 

Eh? 

FAB i o . 

That  is  your  song! 

GIULIA. 

Ah,  na,  na.  You  cannot  tell  "  Non  ti  scordar  di  me  " 
from  "  Santa  Lucia  " !  My  song !  Ha !  Ha ! 

FAB  10 . 
Certo!     Certo!     It  is  your  song,  Giulia. 

GIULIA. 

[Listening,  and  then  as  if  in  great  surprise.]  Ah !  Si ! 
Si !  Isn't  it  strange !  That  is  the  song  I  am  always  try 
ing  to  remember,  and  that  I  never  can  remember. 

[They  listen.     The  song  ceases.] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GIULIA  (feverishly). 
It  is  finished !     Has  he  gone  ? 

F  A  B  i  o  . 
[Looking  out  of  the  window.]     Not  yet. 

GIULIA  (imperiously). 
O !  Fabio,  I  want  to  learn  that  song. 

F  A  B  i  o  . 
Diavolo!    What  an  idea! 

GIULIA. 

I  have  had  that  song  in  my  head  ever  since  I  left 
Napoli! 

FABIO . 

Well!    what  of  that? 

GIULIA. 
I  want  to  learn  that  song.     I  tell  you ! 

FA  BIO. 
Oh!  ridicolo! 

GIULIA. 
But  I  will  learn  it !    You  hear  ? 

FABIO  (irritated). 
Pazza!    pazza  per  la  musica! 

GIULIA. 

Na.  Na.  I  am  not  crazy  about  music,  but  I  want 
that  song.  It  has  been  running  through  my  head  since 
five  years,  and  I  cannot  get  it  right ! 

FABIO  (gesticulating'). 
Am  I  to  get  a  fellow  like  that  to  teach  you?    Eh? 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlULI A. 

Si !     Si !     If  he  knows  it  he  can  teach  me. 

FAB i o . 

Where?  Where  he  teach  you?  Down  there  in  the 
court,  eh? 

Gi  u  LI A  . 
Na!    Na!    He  teach  me  here! 

FA  BIO. 

I  don't  know  him.  I  don't  want  a  fellow  here  I  don't 
know. 

Gi u  LI A. 

Giovinastro!  You  grow  particular.  You  'fraid  he 
steal  the  stove  there,  eh? 

FABIO. 
Na !    Na !    Not  the  stove.    There  are  other  things. 

G  i  u  LI  A  . 

[Becoming  slightly  hysterical  as  her  excitement  over 
powers  her.]  For  five  years  that  song  is  in  my  head, 
and  for  five  years  I  try  to  get  it  straight,  and  I  say,  "  I 
would  give  five  dollars  if  I  can  learn  that  song."  And 
now  there  is  the  man  who  can  teach  me,  and  you  say, 
"  No,  I  shall  not  learn." 

FA  BIO. 

Well,  well,  if  you  take  it  so  hard,  I  will  have  him  teach 
you. 

GIULI A. 

Ah !    Ah !    Ah !     That  is  a  good  Fabio ! 
[  13] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

F AB IO. 

Oh,  yes,  yes.     A  good  Fabio  enough.     .     .     .     Oh, 
yes !    [He  calls  from  window.]    Vedete !    Ecco !    Ecco !  * 
[MICHELE'S  voice  from  below.}     Che  vuole?  f 

[  GIULIA,  hearing  MICHELE'S  voice,  almost  faints  for 
joy.} 

FAB  10 . 
Ecco,  il  suonator !  J 

Mi  CHELE. 
[From  below.]    Ha  bisogna  di  me?    Eh?  § 

FABIO. 

Si!  Si!  Venite  su!||  [Turns  to  GIULIA.]  Now,  I 
hope  you  are  satisfied. 

GIULIA. 
Good  Fabio !    Good  Fabio !    .    .    .    Dear  Fabio ! 

FA  BIO. 

[Banteringly,  without  responding  to  her  caress.]  Ah, 
yes,  yes.  I  am  a  good  Fabio  when  I  do  all  you  want. 
Eh? 

[ GIULIA  goes  out  of  the  door,  looks  down  the  stairs; 
coming  back  to  the  room,  impatiently  says:  I  do 
not  see  him ;  I  do  not  see  him.  He  is  not  com 
ing  up.  (She  moves  about  the  room.)  FABIO 
goes  out,  and  looking  down  the  stairs,  after  a 
pause,  calls:  Si!  Si!  Salite  su.fl"  (Re-enters.) 
He  is  coming  up.] 

*  Look  here !  here  !  t  What  do  you  want  ? 

JSee  here,  Singer!  §  D'ye  want  me,  eh  ? 

||  Yes,  yes,  come  up !  5T  Yes,  yes,  mount  up. 

[  14  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlULI A. 

Ah!  [Unnoticed  by  FABIO  she  now  moves  aimlessly 
about  the  room  as  if  in  a  panic.]  Now,  Fabio,  you  make 
the  bargain  that  he  teach  me.  It  is  better  you  make  him 
think  you  want  him  for  Gioja,  eh?  That  is  a  good 
Fabio!  Eh?  Let  him  think  he  is  to  teach  Gioja,  and 
you  make  a  cheap  bargain.  Yes !  Yes !  Si  Amico  mio ! 

FAB i o . 
What  a  fuss  you  make ! 

Gl  U  LI A  . 

[Trying  to  conceal  her  hysterics.]  Oh,  I  am  so  glad 
to  hear  that  old  song  again !  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that 
old  song  again!  You  make  the  bargain  that  he  teach 
me.  You  let  him  think  that  it  is  for  Gioja,  eh?  You 
are  a  good  Fabio!  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that  old  song 
again !  I  am  so  glad. 

[Exit  into  the  closet.} 

[MICHELE  appears  at  the  door — looks  in  inquiringly. 
He  wears  a  picturesque  felt  sombrero,  corduroy 
breeches,  a  red  waistcoat,  and  bright  green  necker 
chief.  His  mandolin  is  slung,  and  hangs  on  his 
back.} 

MICHELE. 
You  wanta  me? 

FABIO. 

Si !  Si !  Amico  mio !  Si !  Si !  Come  in.  Come 
in.  I  call  you  up  here  because  I  want  you  to  teach  that 
song  to  my  girl.  What  do  you  say,  eh  ? 

MICHELE. 
Ah!     Cana  your  girl  singa,  eh? 

[  15] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

FAB  I O  . 

Yes,  but — well,  I  don't  know.  But  she  always  try  to 
sing  that  song  you  sing  just  now.  What  do  you  say, 
eh  ?  Will  you  teach  her  ?  Sit  down ! 

M i CH  ELE. 
I  can  try.     Where  is  she? 

F AB i o  . 
What  you  charge  to  teach  her  ? 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 
Ah !     I  cannot  tella.     I  never  givea  lessons. 

F  A  B  i  o  . 
What  do  you  make  by  the  hour? 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 

I  makea  ten  cents.  Sometimes  twenty-fivea.  Some 
times  feefty  cents  an  hour.  I  make  a  dollar  in  forty- 
ninea  streeta  in  half  a  minute  t'other  day. 

F AB i o . 

Well,  I  give  you  twenty-five  cents,  and  you  give  me 
one  hour  time,  for  two,  three  days. 

M  i  CH  E  L  E . 

Si !  Si !  I  give  you  the  hour  that  way — tree,  for  tree 
days.  Eh?  Thata  make  seventy-fivea  cents! 

F  A  B  i  o  . 

Yes!  That  is,  you  teach  her  your  song  on  the  man 
dolin  ? 

MICHELE. 

Si !     Si !    That's  alia  right !     Where  is  your  girl  ? 
[  16] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

FAB  10 . 

I  will  ask  her.  [Goes  to  closet  door.]  Hola!  Hola! 
Giulia ! 

G  i  u  L  i  A  . 
[From  within.]     Si!    Si!    Subito,  Subito !  * 

F  AB  I  O  . 

You  come  now.  You  hear?  I  have  fix  for  your  les 
son.  [FABIO  takes  a  pan  of  food  from  the  window,  then 
calling  again.]  Giulia! 

GIULIA. 
You  go  with  the  supper.     I  come. 

FABIO. 
All  right!     A  rivederla,  Signore! 

[Exit  FABIO.] 

[When  the  door  has  closed  on  FABIO,  GIULIA,  in  her 
best  gown  and  head-dress,  emerges  cautiously 
from  the  closet.  She  regards  MICHELE  with  as 
tonishment,  then  with  delight,  rushes  into  his  arms 
uttering  a  scream  followed  by  "  Ohs "  of  wel 
come.  In  a  moment  the  door  opens  quickly. 
GIULIA  has  just  fled  suddenly  from  the  arms  of 
MICHELE  while  putting  a  finger  to  her  lips  to  se 
cure  his  silence.} 

FA  BIO. 

[Entering,     looks    inquiringly     and    doubtingly    at 
MICHELE.] 
What  was  that  cry? 

*  Yes,  yes,  right  away  ! 

[  iz] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

G  I  U  L  I  A. 

Oh,  my !    Oh,  my !    Oh,  my     ...    finger. 

F AB i o . 
Why,  what's  the  matter  with  your  finger? 

GIULI A. 
I  pinched  it  in  that  drawer.     It  hurts. 

[She  puts  her  little  finger  in  her  mouth  and  pretends 
to  suffer.} 

F AB 10. 
Hurt  much,  eh? 

Gi u  LI  A . 

Very!     [Taking  it  out  of  her  mouth  to  speak.} 

FAB  10 . 
Poverina !    Here,  let  me  see ! 

GIULI A. 
Oh,  it  don't  show.     [She  holds  up  her  finger.} 

FAB  10. 
I  don't  see  nothing. 

Gi u  LI A . 
No ;  there's  nothing  to  see — not  yet.     Maybe  later. 

FAB i o  . 

You  think  it  get  black,  eh  ?  Look  here !  [He  takes  a 
large  red  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  folds  it 
lengthwise,  then  wraps  the  finger  until  it  is  as  big  as  her 
fist.]  Now,  now  you  feel  better.  Eh?  But,  Diavolo! 
How  are  you  going  to  learn  to  play  mandolin?  You 
can  play  hand-organ  without  fingers.  Ma !  Ma !  Cos- 

[  18] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

petto !  You  need  fingers  to  play  mandolin.  [Chuckling.] 
[He  looks  at  MICHELE,  who  replies  by  an  approving  nod.] 
Eh!  Eh!  Suonator? 

GIULI A. 

Oh!  I'm  all  right.  It's  better  already.  Say!  I 
don't  use  little  finger  to  play  mandolin.  Na !  Na !  All 
right !  You  go  to  your  oven. 

[FABIO  satisfied,  after  looking  from  MICHELE  to 
GIULIA,  makes  his  exit.  When  the  door  closes 
there  is  a  pantomime  expressive  of  their  lucky  es 
cape;  then  they  doubt  whether  FABIO  suspects. 
GIULIA  goes  out  on  the  landing  to  make  sure,  and 
returns  radiant,  showing  that  FABIO  has  descended 
the  stairs,  when,  with  a  sneer,  she  quickly  uncoils 
the  handkerchief  and  tosses  it  in  the  air.] 

MICHELE. 
[In  a  whisper.]     Who  is  he? 

GIULIA. 
[In  a  whisper.]     My  husband. 

MICHELE. 
Ah!    You  got  a  husband? 

GIULIA. 

Si! 

MICHELE. 
Ah !    And  you  promise  to  waita  for  me ! 

[He  sinks  on  a  chair  in  a  rage  which  he  betrays  in 
the  passionate  manner  of  the  simple,  ignorant 
Italian.] 

1 19] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlULI A. 

I  could  not!  I  could  not!  It  must  be  that  I  marry 
Fabio  Rinaldi^  or  be  turned  into  the  street. 

M  i  c  H  E  LE. 

[Springing  up  in  ill-suppressed  fury.]  That  greata 
biga  devil — your  mother! 

G  i  u  L  i  A  (acting  the  incident). 

She  wait  for  me  behind  the  door  three  hours  that  night 
we  stay  out  so  late  upon  the  bay;  and  when  I  come  in 
she  draw  out  a  corset-bone  and  she  beat  me  with  a  corset- 
bone,  and  I  stay  in  bed  a  week,  and  she  say :  "  You  thank 
Santa  Lucia  I  do  not  break  every  rib  in  your  body,  eh? 
for  you  think  I  give  twenty  soldi  every  week  for  your 
school  for  you  to  go  marry  a  street  singer,  eh  ?  "  .  .  . 
She  then  make  me  marry  Fabio  Rinaldi.  [Pause.] 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 
Is  he  rich  man  ? 

GIULI A. 
Na!    Does  it  look  rich  here? 

M  i  c  H  ELE. 
Whata  his  business,  eh  ? 

GIULI A. 
Baker,  baker.     In  the  basement. 

Mi  CHELE. 

I  pass  it  manya  time.  [Stupefied.]  So  you  married ! 
So  you  married !  [Suddenly  he  seizes  her  and  demands, 
with  a  cry.}  Why  you  geta  married,  eh?  Why  you 
geta  married^  eh  ?  Telia  me ! 

[    20] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

Gl U  L I  A . 

Tell  you  what,  eh?  What  do  you  think?  That  I 
could  go  off  with  you  then  and  get  married  like  that! 
[Snapping  her  fingers.']  Any  madre  do  the  same.  You 
did  have  no  money.  You  did  play.  You  did  sing,  and 
you  did  not  work,  and  you  then  made  nothing ! 

M i c  H  E  LE . 

You  know  why,  eh?  You  not  know  why?  {He  takes 
her  in  his  arms.} 

GIULI A. 
Na! 

M I CH  ELE. 

Because  I  did  love  you. 

GIULI A. 

You  did  love  me,  and  you  go  way  from  Napoli.  What 
made  you  go  way?  You  did  not  come  back.  Who 
made  you  go  way  from  me? 

M  i  CH  ELE. 

I  hada  no  money.  ...  I  could  not  singa  then  like 
I  singa  now.  I  could  not  starva !  .  .  .  Your  mother 
she  say  to  me,  "  You  come  round  Giulia,  and,  Madre  di 
Dio,  I  put  a  knifea  into  you !  " 

GIULIA  (ruminating) . 

And  she  was  the  woman  to  do  it,  lo  credo.  .  .  . 
But  when  did  you  come  to  New  York  ? 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 

When  I  cornea?  I  cornea  six  months  ago.  ...  I 
looka  for  you  near  five  year  in  Italy.  I  say  "  She  is 

[    21    ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

somewhere  in  Italy."  I  go  to  Roma,  to  Firenze,  to 
Genova.  I  finda  you  nowhere.  .  .  .  Whena  you 
cornea  to  New  York,  eh? 

Giu  LI  A. 
I  come  five  years  ago  with  Fabio  and    .     .     .    baby. 

M  I  CH  ELE. 

Baby !    Diavolo !     Baby ! 

GIULI A. 
Na !     Na !     Not  my  baby— Fabio's. 

Mi  CHELE. 
Ah !     So !     He  was  marry  before  ? 

GIULI A. 
Si !    His  first  wife  died.    He  had  a  little  girl. 

M I C  H  E  LE . 

Ah!    That  is  better ! 

GIULI A. 
Better!    Why,  what  do  you  mean?     [Pause.] 

Mi  CHELE. 
[Slowly.]     You  havea  no  child.    You  can  cornea  with 

me! 

Gi  u  L  i  A  . 

You  want  me  to  leave  Fabio  and  Gioja? 

M  i  CHELE. 
Si!    You  cornea  with  me! 

G  i  u  L  i  A  . 

He  is  good  to  me,  and  I  love  Gioja! 
[  22  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

M  I  C  H  E  L  E  . 

So !     So !    You  love  a  baby  better  than  you  love  me ! 

GIULI A. 

Na !  Na !  But  I  get  used  to  it  here.  It  is  my  home. 
I  love  Gioja.  She  is  good.  I  do  my  work.  I  try  to  for 
get.  I  try  to  give  you  up.  Oh !  I  try — until  to-day,  I 
hear  you  sing.  And  then  I  remember  Napoli  and  that 
night  when  we  are  in  the  boat,  and  the  moon  was  setting, 
and  you  take  me  far,  far  out — the  grotto  way — and  the 
air  is  still,  and  the  water  so  smooth,  so  soft,  so  silent. 
And  Vesuve — the  smoke  rising,  rising  higher,  higher, 
like  a  thread,  and  then  it  spread  like  that.  [Descriptive 
pantomime.]  And  O — I  forget  everything  when  I  hear 
you  sing !  You  see,  I  am  crazy  to  see  you  again !  [  Then 
in  Italian.']  I  love  you,  Michele!  I  love  you!  I  forget 
everything  but  that  I  love  you,  and  that  you  are  here, 
here,  here  with  me.  Michele,  I  love  you!  I  love  you! 
I  love  you !  [She  is  in  his  arms.] 

MICHELE. 

Si !  Si !  You  lovea  me,  and  you  remember  what  you 
say  thata  night? 

Gi u  LI  A . 
[Cajolingly.]     Na!     Na! 

MICHELE. 

[Slowly.]  You  say:  "Michele,  I  thinka  you  will  do 
greata  things.  You  will  be  likea  thata  other  greata 
Italian — Bonaparte !  " 

Gi u  LI  A . 
Did  I  say  that,  Michele? 

[  23] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

M  I  C  H  E  LE . 

Si!  You  say  that  in  Napoli,  and  you  go  marry  a 
baker. 

GIULI A. 
I  could  not  help  it — I  tell  you. 

Ml  CH  ELE. 

Finea  words !     Finea  words ! 

Gi u  L i A . 

It  was  La  Madalena  who  said  I  shall  not  marry  a  street 
musician. 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 

[Seeing  that  he  is  gaining  an  influence  over  her.]  A 
streeta  musician !  Eh  ?  A  streeta  musician !  II  Trova- 
tore  was  a  streeta  musician.  [Caressingly.] 

GIULI A. 

[Gradually  yielding  to  his  influence.]  I  love  you, 
Michele! 

M  I  C  H  E  L  E  . 

Carissima !     You  cornea  with  me ! 

Gi  u  LI  A. 
[Faintly.]     O!  stay  here! 

MICHELE. 
Staya  here,  and  see  you  with  another  man? 

Gi u  L i A . 
Oh,  do  not  go. 

MICHELE  (firmly). 
Yes,  I  will  go,  and  you  will  go  with  me. 

[  24  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

Gl  U  L  I  A. 

Oh !     How  can  I  ? 

M  I  C  H  E  L  E  . 

Do  you  wanta  to  stay  here  and  die  ?  Or  do  you  wanta 
go  with  me?  To  Napoli.  Think  of  the  bay — and  our 
boats — the  bluea  sky — the  music  and  the  moonlight! 
Thinka !  Thinka ! 

Gi u  LI A . 

Na !     Na !     I  cannot  think !     It  makes  me  wild !  wild ! 

M i CH  ELE. 
Cornea  with  me! 

Gi  u  L i A  . 
And  Gioja! 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 

You  can  steala  yourself,  but  you  cannot  steala  another 
man's  child.  Cornea !  Si !  Si !  Cornea ! 

G  i  u  L  i  A  . 

Yes !  Yes !  I  will  see  her.  I  will  kiss  her  for  good- 
by.  .  .  .  Then  maybe  I  go  ...  with  you  .  .  . 
Gioja !  Gioja ! 

[Exit  into  closet.     Pause.     GIULIA  re-enters.] 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 

[She  is  irresolute.]  See !  See !  I  have  plenty  money ! 
[Takes  bag  of  money  from  his  trousers  pistol  pocket.] 
I  makea  money.  [Slowly.]  I  saya  "I  finda  Giulia. 
She's  in  New  York.  I  keepa  these  gold  pieces  till  I  finda 
her.  I  look  all  over  Easta  Side,  but  I  find  her.  See ! 
Looka!  Golda!  See  here!  [Hurriedly.]  We  buy 

[  25  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

ticket  to  Geneva,  eh?  We  go  by  steamer.  To-night! 
To-night!  [She  shudders.]  He  never  catcha  you. 
Never !  No !  He  'f raida !  We  go  to  Napoli.  To  Na- 
poli.  I  sing  in  opera.  [She  looks  inquiringly.]  You 
saya  No?  I  saya  Yes!  They  wanta  me  there.  O! 
Giulia,  I  am  here  because  I  love  you  so.  [Pause.] 

Gi  u  LI  A. 
They  will  say  I  am  a  bad  woman. 

M i CHELE. 
Who  will  say  ? 

GIULIA. 
[  Vehemently.  ]     Everybody. 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 
Cospetto !     Who  will  knowa  you  ? 

GIULIA. 
In  Napoli! 

M i CH  E  LE. 
Che!     Che!     Che! 

GIULIA. 
Fabio!    What  will  he  do? 

M  I  C  H  E  L  E  . 

He  pay  ten  dollar.     He  get  a  divorcea. 

GIULIA. 
He  will  come  after  me! 

M  I  C  H  E  L  E  . 

Na !     He  staya  here  to  make  his  bread.     He  saya,  let 
her  go !    Woman  plenty ! 

1 26] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlULI  A. 

Oh !    I  am  afraid. 

M  i  CH  ELE. 
Ah !     You  wanta  staya  here  ? 

Gi  u  LI  A  . 
No!     No!     {Whispers.}     I  want  to  go  with  you! 

MICHELE. 
Cornea ! 

GlULI  A. 

The  people  in  Napoli  will  mob  me ! 

MICHELE. 

Na!  Na!  You  'fraida,  eh?  .  .  .  Now,  now, 
Giulia,  see !  Listen.  I  tell  you  this :  We  go  to  Napoli. 
We  saya  we  married.  Then  they  saya,  Whata  you  do 
with  Fabio  Rinaldi  ?  We  say,  Go  see !  .  .  .  Giulia, 
I  tella  you  we  have  plenty  money.  People  see  we  have 
money ;  then  ev'rybody  say  "  All  right !  "  No  be  af  raida ! 
Yes,  money  makea  all  right ! 

[ GIULIA  begins  to  move  about,  putting  up  her  things 
— packing  them  in  an  old  bag.} 

MICHELE. 

Maybe  we  better  sing  a  little.  Rinaldi  thinka  we  very 
quiet  for  a  music  lesson,  eh  ?  What  you  do  now  ? 

GIULIA. 

[Who  is  writing  on  a  half -sheet  of  paper,  which  she 
has  found  in  the  drawer  of  the  dresser.}  I  must  tell 
Fabio ! 

[27] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

M  I  CH  ELE. 

You  ah !     You  tella  Fabio,  and  he  tella  the  cops ! 

Gi  u  L  i  A  . 

Na!  Na!  Fabio  cannot  read.  It  will  take  him  an 
hour  to  make  it  out.  [She  writes,  spelling  out  the  letters 
continuously,  the  audience  not  making  out  the  words.]  I 
want  him  to  take  good  care  of  Gioja.  [She  pins  the 
sheet  of  paper  to  the  door  R.  C.} 

[MICHELE  takes  the  bag,  goes  to  the  window,  and 
looks  out  into  the  court  below.} 

MICHELE. 

[Starting  back.]  Corpo  di  bacco!  There  is  Rinaldi 
in  the  courta !  He  is  coming  upa ! 

Gi u  LI  A . 
Ah !     [She  has  opened  door  R.  C.] 

MICHELE. 

We  go  upstairs  to  the  nexta  floor.  When  he  come  in 
here,  he  shuta  that  door;  then  we  go  downa  quick — un 
derstand!  Down  the  stairs,  eh? 

GIULI A  . 

Na!  Na!  You  go  down  by  yourself.  I  go  down 
this  way!  [She  opens  dumb-waiter  door.] 

MICHELE. 
Is  it  safe  ?    It  won't  breaka  with  you  ?    Eh  ? 

Giu  L i A  . 
Na !     It  carry  two  hundred  pounds  coal  easy ! 

28 


LITTLE     ITALY 

M I CH  ELE. 

Senza  dubio? 

GIULI A. 
Si !     Si !     Senza  dubio. 

M  i  CH  E  LE. 
I  don't  like  that ! 

Gi  u  L  i  A. 
Meet  me  at  the  butcher  shop. 

Ml  CHELE. 

Eh? 

Gi  U  LI  A. 

At  the  butcher  shop !     At  the  corner. 

M  i  c  H  E  L  E  . 

Si !     Si ! 

G  I  U  L I  A. 

Quick!     Quick!     Give  me  the  bag.     I  better  take  it. 

Yes.     Quick!     Quick!     At    the    butcher    shop    at    the 

corner. 

[MICHELE  gives  her  the  bag.  She  enters  the  dumb 
waiter,  and  descends  in  sight  of  the  audience. 
MICHELE  closes  the  door  of  the  dumb-waiter  and 
cautiously  makes  his  exit  by  the  door  R.  C.,  which 
he  closes  behind  him.  The  stage  is  empty,  and 
the  rope  is  heard  to  creak  regularly,  until  inter 
rupted  by  a  scream  and  a  distant  crash.  Pause.} 

[Enter  FABIO.  He  has  a  pan  of  food  which  he  holds 
with  a  towel  at  the  handles.  He  pauses  at  the  door  see 
ing  the  room  empty.  Carrying  the  pan  he  goes  softly  to 
the  door  of  the  closet,  opens  it  carefully,  and  calls  softly.] 

[  29] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

Giulia!  (Pause.)  [Still  carrying  the  pan,  he  goes  out 
door  R.  C.,  and  stands  in  the  hall  and  calls.]  Giulia! 
[Pause.  The  audience  hears  FABIO  walk  along  the  hall 
and  knock  at  a  door.  A  voice  calls  to  him  in  Italian,  and 
he  is  heard  to  ask:] 

FABIO. 
Is  Signora  Rinaldi  there,  Signora  ? 

VOICE. 

[A  woman's  voice  replies.]  No,  Signer,  she  is  not 
here. 

FA  BIO. 

[Again  calling  in  the  hallway.]  Giulia.  [Louder.] 
Giulia!  [Pause.  He  comes  back  into  the  room,  still 
carrying  the  pan,  and  shuts  the  door.}  Where  did  she 
go?  [Puts  pan  on  the  stove  then.  He  opens  the  door 
of  the  closet  softly.  Sees  that  GIOJA  is  awake.]  Ah, 
Gioja!  You  wake,  eh?  You  well,  eh? 

GIOJA. 

[Outside.]  Si  !  Si  !  Papa.  Si  !  Si  !  Ma  dove 
mamma — dove  mamma  ? 

FABIO. 

I  don't  know,  bambina.  She  gone  out.  She  soon 
come  back.  I  go  see  where  she  go.  [He  starts  to  exit 
R.  C.  Sees  paper  pinned  on  door.  Takes  it  down. 
Tries  to  read  it.  Puzzled.}  Stupido!  Imbecille!  Even 
my  baby  knows  her  letters,  and  I  cannot  read.  [Exit 
into  closet,  and  is  heard  to  say:]  Qui,  Qui,  Bambina! 
You  come  read  this  little  note  for  old  papa,  eh?  [Re- 
enter  carrying  GIOJA,  who  is  in  her  night-gown.] 

[  30 1 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GlO  J  A. 

Yes,  papa. 

F  A  B  i  o  (playfully) . 

You  no  more  sick? 

Gio j A. 

No,  caro  papa. 

FAB  10 . 

That's  good!  That's  good!  No  more  green  apples, 
eh  ?  Na !  Na !  You  come  read  this  little  note  for  papa. 
Eh  ?  [He  sits  and  takes  GIOJA  on  his  lap.  GIOJA  spells 
out  to  herself,  and  reads  the  words  of  the  note.}  I 
...  do  ...  not  .  .  .  love  .  .  .  you,  .  .  .  Fabio.  .  .  . 
I  ...  never  .  .  .  have  .  .  .  love  .  .  .  you.  ...  I  ...  go 
.  .  .  away.  ...  I  ...  never  .  .  .  come  .  .  .  back.  .  .  . 
Take  .  .  .  good  .  .  .  care  .  .  .  dear  .  .  .  little  .  .  .  Gio- 
ja.  .  .  .  Giulia  .  .  .  Rinaldi.  [Pause.  FABIO  muses  as 
the  reading  begins.  Quickly  his  sorrow  breaks  forth  in 
groans,  and  then  he  starts  as  if  stabbed  at  every  word. 
When  the  reading  ends,  he  carries  GIOJA  to  the  closet. 
He  exits  into  it  with  her,  then  re-enters,  and  speaks  back 
into  the  closet.}  You  lay  down  there  little  while.  Papa 
come  back  soon.  That's  a  good  little  girl.  [He  goes  C. 
and  picks  up  note.}  I  do  not  love  you,  Fabio.  I  never 
have  love  you.  [Long  pause  with  business  indicative  of 
his  growing  fury}  I  do  not  love  you,  Fabio.  [Then 
with  a  wild  cry.}  Ma!  Maledetto  suonator!  Avro  il 
sangue  del  suo  cuore !  * 

[With  sudden  energy  and  rapidity  he  takes  off  his 
baker's  apron  and  gets  out  his  coat  and  hat.    He 

*  Cursed  Singer !  I  will  have  his  heart's  blood. 

[  31  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

mutters  to  himself  rapidly.  A  clamor  of  voices  is 
heard.  FABIO  does  not  seem  to  hear  it.  At  first 
distant,  it  gradually  grows  louder  and  nearer. 
Men  and  women  are  now  heard  outside  chatter 
ing  and  exclaiming  in  great  excitement,  and  a 
mingling  of  Italian  and  English.  The  crowd  is 
noisily  swelling  up  the  stairway.  Voices  are  also 
heard  in  the  court.  Several  women  are  heard  to 
scream.  FABIO  does  not  hear.  He  continues  to 
talk  to  himself  as  he  makes  ready  to  go  out.  He 
starts  towards  door  R.  C.  The  door  is  burst  open. 
The  hall  is  seen  to  be  crowded  with  Italians.  The 
panic,  the  confusion,  and  the  excitement  must  all 
be  firmly  suggested,  but  not  obtruded.  MICHELE 
enters,  carrying  the  nearly  lifeless  body  of  GIULIA. 
Business.  MICHELE  and  FABIO  place  GIULIA  on 
the  bed.  FABIO  pushes  out  the  Italians  who  would 
force  their  way  into  the  room.  He  bolts  the  door. 
The  men  regard  each  other.} 

MICHELE. 
[Points  to  the  dumb-waiter.']     She  went  downa  that 


way! 


[FABIO  goes  to  the  dumb-waiter  and  opens  it.  The 
audience  sees  the  frayed  end  of  the  dangling 
broken  rope.} 

FABIO  (with  a  yell). 
Che! 

[The  men  regard  GIULIA  tearfully.} 

[32] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

G  I  U  L I  A. 

I  ...  never  ...  see  ...  Napoli.  .  .  .  Oime!  .  .  . 
Oime!  [Screams  in  agony.]  Gioja!  Gioja!  Ah! 
[As  she  murmurs,  screams,  and  calls.]  Poor  me!  Poor 
me!  I  cannot  see!  ...  Fabio!  [Pause  while  dying 
scene  is  acted.] 

M  I  C  H  E  L  E  . 

She  dying!     She  dying! 

[GIULIA'S  voice  has  grown  inaudible.] 

FABIO. 

[Rushing  to  window  and  calling.}  Baldassare!  Bal- 
dassare ! 

[The  murmur  of  voices  has  been  heard  throughout 
the  scene,  moderated  so  as  not  to  detract  from  the 
action.  Many  voices  from  the  court.} 

VOICES. 
Si!     Si!     Si!     Signore! 

FABIO. 

[At  the  window.}  Chima  subito!  Subito,  un  padre 
confessare  la  mia  moglie !  * 

VOICES. 
Si!     Si!     Si!     Signore! 

[FABIO  hastens  aimlessly  about  the  room,  then  takes 
the  two  candles  from  the  dresser,  lights  them  and 
puts  them  on  each  side  of  the  head  of  the  bed. 
He  then  unhooks  a  crucifix  of  black  wood  from 
the  wall,  which  he  places  upon  the  breast  of 

*  Call  quick,  quick,  a  priest  to  confess  my  wife. 

[  33  ] 


LITTLE     ITALY 

GIULIA,  who  is  now  lying  dead.     He  takes  his 
rosary  and  kneels  by  the  head  of  the  bed.] 

F ABIO. 
O,  Giulia !     O,  Dio !     Dio !     Dio ! 

[MICHELE  shows  his  grief.  His  hands  before  his 
eyes.  FABIO  raises  his  head.  Seeing  MICHELE, 
FABIO  rises,  goes  to  the  dresser,  and  takes  out  a 
long  carving-knife.  He  steals  revengefully  tow 
ard  MICHELE,  who  catches  FABIO' s  right  arm  as 
it  is  raised  aloft  to  stab.  They  wrestle.] 

MICHELE. 

Hah!    Whata  you  do?    Eh?    You  wanta  killa  me? 
One  dead !    One  not  enougha.    Eh  ? 

[Hearing  the  fight,  the  people  in  the  hall  call  out 
and  try  to  force  open  the  door,  but  do  not  succeed. 
FABIO  and  MICHELE  part.  MICHELE  tries  to  es 
cape,  and  seizes  a  poker  as  FABIO  makes  a  second 
onslaught.  The  people  beat  on  the  door  and 
shout.] 

MICHELE. 

You  wanta  to  killa  me.     Eh  ?    You  want  to  go  to  Sing 

a  Sing?    You  wanta  sit  in  that  'lectricala  chaira!     Eh? 

.    .    .    Who  take  care  little  Gioj a  then?    Who?    Who? 

[FABIO  drops  his  knife,  and  staggers  to  a  seat  to 

bury  his  face  in  his  hands.] 

GIOJ A. 
[Entering  from  closet,  weeping.]    Manama!    Mamma! 

CURTAIN. 
[34] 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 


The  Preface  to  "  Un  Pere  Prodigue 
by  Alexandre  Dumas,   fils. 


O-DAY,  if  you  have  no  objection, 
we  will  talk  shop,  and  we  should 
concede  to  the  business  of  the 
theatre  its  proper  share — the  share 
so  prominent  that  at  times  it  passes 
for  being  the  whole  of  it. 

Of  all  the  different  palpable 
forms  of  thought  the  theatre  most 
nearly  approaches  the  plastic  arts.  No  man  should 
engage  in  it  without  knowing  its  material  processes,  for 
there  is  this  difference:  in  the  other  arts  he  learns  the 
processes,  but  in  the  theatre  they  must  be  found  out,  or, 
to  state  it  exactly,  he  must  be  endowed  with  them  by 
nature. 

One  may  become  a  painter,  sculptor,  or  even  a  musi 
cian,  by  dint  of  study,  but  not  a  dramatic  author.  He  is 
so  at  the  first,  or  never,  even  as  he  is  blond  or  black, 
without  his  volition. 

It  is  a  caprice  of  nature  to  have  constructed  your  eye 
of  a  peculiar  style,  in  order  that  you  might  see  in  a 

[  37  ] 


APPENDIX 

certain  way  that  which  is  not  absolutely  the  truth,  but 
which,  however,  ought  to  appear  only  so  for  the  moment 
to  those  whom  you  wish  might  see  what  you  have  seen. 
He  who  essays  to  write  for  the  stage  reveals  at  his  first 
attempt  this  rare  faculty  of  seeing  and  showing,  be  it 
in  a  college  farce  or  a  parlor  charade.  It  is  a  science  of 
optics  and  perspective  that  enables  the  sketching  of  a 
personage,  a  character,  a  passion,  an  action  of  the  soul, 
with  a  single  stroke  of  the  pen.  The  trompe  Vceil  is  so 
complete  that  it  happens  often  that  the  spectator,  who 
has  turned  reader  and  wants  to  feel  again  and  alone  the 
emotion  which  moved  him  with  the  crowd,  fails  not  only 
to  discover  this  emotion  in  the  written  thing,  but  the 
place  where  it  occurs.  It  was  a  word,  a  look,  a  gesture, 
a  silence,  or  a  combination  purely  atmospheric,  had  held 
him  under  its  spell.  It  is  that  something  which  is  the 
genius  of  the  business,  if  these  two  words  can  go  together. 
We  could  compare  the  work  of  the  theatre,  in  its  relation 
to  other  literary  forms,  with  ceiling  painting  as  related 
to  mural,  or  to  easel  pictures.  Heaven  help  the  painter 
if  he  forgets  that  his  work  is  to  be  seen  aloft,  and 
viewed  at  a  distance  from  below  and  lighted  from  under 
neath. 

A  man  of  little  value  as  a  thinker,  moralist,  philoso 
pher,  or  writer,  can  still  be  a  man  of  the  first  order  as  a 
dramatic  author;  that  is  to  say,  as  a  setter-in-motion  of 
movements  purely  outside  of  man.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  be,  for  the  drama,  a  thinker,  moralist,  philos 
opher,  or  a  writer  who  is  heard,  it  is  indispensably  nec 
essary  to  be  gifted  with  these  particular  and  natural 

[  38] 


APPENDIX 

qualities  of  the  man  of  little  value.  In  short,  to  be  a 
master  in  this  art,  it  is  necessary  to  be  an  expert  in  the 
business. 

If  one  can  never  reveal  these  natural  qualities  to  those 
who  do  not  possess  them,  nothing  is  easier  than  to  recog 
nize  and  develop  them  in  whoever  has  them. 

The  first  of  these  qualities,  the  most  indispensable,  that 
which  dominates  and  governs,  is  the  logic  which  com 
prehends  good  sense  and  clarity.  Truth  therein  may  be 
absolute  or  relative,  according  to  the  importance  of  the 
subject  or  the  place  it  occupies;  the  logic  should  be 
implacable  between  the  point  of  departure  and  the  des 
tination,  in  order  that  it  shall  never  be  lost  to  view  in 
either  the  development  of  the  idea  or  the  fact.  It  is 
needful,  besides,  to  project  it  continually  under  the  spec 
tators'  eyes  from  the  side  of  the  person  or  of  the  thing 
for  or  against  which  one's  plot  would  culminate.  Then 
the  science  of  the  minor  parts  is  to  be  considered;  that  is 
to  say,  of  the  blacks  or  shadows — the  oppositions,  in  a 
word — which  establish  the  equilibrium,,  the  ensemble,  the 
harmony;  then  the  brevity,  the  rapidity,  must  be  provided 
for,  which  does  not  allow  him  who  listens  to  be  diverted 
or  to  reflect,  even  to  take  a  long  breath  or  to  debate  within 
himself  with  the  author;  then  the  knowledge  of  the  plans, 
which  does  not  let  slip  to  the  background  the  figure  which 
should  be  kept  in  the  light,  nor  advance  into  the  light  the 
half-tint  figures;  then  that  progression — mathematical, 
inexorable,  fatalistic — which  multiplies  scene  upon  scene, 
event  upon  event,  act  upon  act,  unto  the  denouement, 
which  ought  to  be  the  sum  and  the  proof,  indeed,  the 

[39] 


APPENDIX 

exact  notion  of  our  limitations,  which  forbids  us  to  make 
our  picture  bigger  than  its  frame ;  for  the  dramatist,  who 
has  the  most  to  say,  must  say  it  all  from  eight  o'clock 
until  midnight,  one  hour  of  the  time  to  be, deducted  for 
the  entre-actes  and  the  relief  of  the  spectator. 

I  have  not  spoken  of  imagination,  because  it  is  the 
stage  that,  outside  of  the  author,  supplies  it  in  the  inter 
pretation,  through  scenery  and  accessories,  while  it  puts 
into  flesh  and  blood  and  into  words  and  images  before 
the  spectator  the  people,  places,  and  things  which  he 
would  be  obliged  to  imagine,  if  he  were  in  front  of  a  book. 
Nor  have  I  spoken  of  invention,  for  the  excellent  reason 
that  invention  does  not  exist  for  us.  We  have  nothing  to 
invent.  We  have  only  to  look  and  remember,  to  feel,  to 
co-ordinate  and  give  back,  under  a  special  form,  that 
which  all  the  spectators  should  immediately  remember  to 
have  felt  or  witnessed,  without  being  able  to  give  an 
account  till  that  time.  The  reality  at  the  bottom,  the 
possible  in  the  deed,  the  ingenuity  in  the  medium;  these 
are  all  that  can  be  asked  of  us. 

The  dramatic  art  which  requires  a  business  by  itself, 
ought  it  to  have  also  a  style  by  itself?  Yes.  One  is 
never  a  dramatic  author  completely  unless  he  has  a 
manner  of  writing,  like  a  manner  of  seeing,  strictly  per 
sonal.  A  dramatic  work  ought  always  to  be  written  as 
if  it  were  only  to  be  read.  A  performance  is  only  a  read 
ing  by  several  persons  for  those  who  do  not  wish,  or  who 
do  not  know,  how  to  read.  It  is  through  those  who  go 
to  the  theatre  that  the  piece  succeeds,  and  through  those 
who  do  not  go  that  it  is  confirmed.  The  spectator  gives 

[40] 


APPENDIX 

it  notoriety,  the  reader  confers  upon  it  fame.  The  play 
that  one  does  not  desire  to  read  without  having  seen, 
nor  to  re-read  after  having  read,  is  dead,  even  had  it  two 
thousand  successive  representations.  Only  it  is  necessary, 
in  order  that  the  work  shall  live  without  the  aid  of  the 
interpreter,  that  the  style  of  the  author  shall  be  equal  to 
the  transporting  to  the  eyes  of  the  reader  the  solidities, 
proportions,  forms,  and  tones  that  audiences  would  ap 
plaud.  The  language  of  the  greatest  authors  is  merely 
for  the  dramatic  author  so  many  suggestions;  it  teaches 
him  only  words,  and,  besides,  there  is  that  host  of  words 
that  he  should  exclude  from  the  body  of  his  vocabulary, 
because  they  are  deficient  in  relief,  vigor,  bonhomie — 
I  would  even  say  deficient  in  the  triviality  needed  for  this 
action  of  the  true  man  on  this  false  ground. 

The  vocabulary  of  Moliere,  for  example,  is  the  most 
limited;  he  uses  always  the  same  expressions;  he  plays 
the  whole  human  soul  upon  five  and  a  half  octaves. 

The  language  of  books ;  that  is  to  say,  of  the  thought 
presented  directly  to  the  reader,  may  be  fixed  once  for  all. 
Whoever  writes  a  narrative,  nay,  even  a  dialogue  destined 
for  a  single  reading,  may  appropriate  the  form  of  a  master 
of  the  same  kind  of  literature  as  his  own — say  of  Bossuet, 
Voltaire,  Pascal,  Jean  Jacques,  Sand,  Hugo,  Lamartine, 
Renan,  Theophile  Gautier,  Sainte  Beuve,  Flaubert — only 
no  one  would  want  it  of  him,  and  no  one  would  take 
kindly  to  such  homage  to  tradition  and  purity.  The 
origin,  however,  might  not  be  recognized,  and  one  might 
feel  him  to  be  a  writer  and  proclaim  him  as  such.  He 
would  be  that,  indeed,  if  even  his  pure  and  elegant  style 

[41 1 


APPENDIX 

did  not  contain  one  new  idea,  for  we  see  every  day  the 
spectacle — form  making  us  believe  there  is  depth  beneath 
it. 

In  the  drama  there  must  be  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
moment  we  follow  the  language  of  one  of  our  masters 
we  are  no  longer  reverent  disciples,  but  insupportable 
copyists.  What  we  may  take  from  the  masters  in  this  art 
is  their  way  of  seeing  things,  and  not  their  manner  of 
expression.  Each  one  has  his  factory  stamp,  which 
nobody  can  copy  without  becoming  a  counterfeiter.  Read 
Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere,  Marivaux,  Beaumarchais,  for 
we  hold  to  these  dead,  and  note  the  differences — how 
each  of  them  has  poured  his  own  particular  alcohol 
into  this  running  stream  that  goes  by  the  name  of 
language. 

This  language  of  the  theatre,  does  it  need  to  be  cor 
rect?  No ;  not  in  the  grammatical  sense.  It  is  necessary 
though,  before  everything,  that  it  should  be  clear,  colored, 
penetrating,  incisive. 

Je  t'aimais  inconstant;  qu'aurais-je  fait  fidele?  is  an 
abominable  fault  of  grammar  that  the  verse  did  not 
require.  If,  however,  it  had  been  needed  to  paint  the  same 
sentiment  in  prose,  Racine,  who  knew  his  business,  would 
have  presented  it  with  the  same  inaccuracy.  There  are 
turns  of  phrases  and  of  words  which  of  themselves  have 
a  flash,  a  sonority,  a  sense  which  make  of  them  necessities, 
showing  that  they  must  be  admitted  at  the  risk  of  com 
promising  the  text.  Thus  the  old  academic  writers, 
comprehending  nothing  of  our  form,  treated  us  in  advance 
as  barbarians.  It  was  the  misunderstanding  arising  be- 

[42 1 


APPENDIX 

tween  the  two  manners  which  caused  La  Bruyere  to  utter 
this  absurd  truth:  "  Moliere  only  needed  to  have  avoided 
jargon  and  to  write  purely." 

Fenelon  thought  and  taught  like  La  Bruyere  in  speak 
ing  of  our  file  leader,  Moliere.  La  Bruyere  was  right,  and 
he  was  also  wrong;  that  is  why  I  have  allowed  myself 
this  expression,  "  absurd  truth,"  in  citing  the  opinion  of 
an  author  that  I  revere  more  than  any,  who  consolidated 
the  language  of  books,  who  has  inundated  the  world  with 
truths  that  he  was  incapable  of  expressing  from  the  stage, 
because  there  he  would  have  engraved  in  hollows  where 
he  should  have  sculptured  in  relief. 

[The  author  here  cites  examples  from  Moliere  to  prove 
his  defective  grammar,  which  are  omitted  by  the  trans 
lator.— H.  B.  FJ 

These  inaccuracies,  so  shocking  when  read,  not  only 
pass  unnoticed  on  the  stage,  in  the  intonation  of  the  actor 
and  the  movement  of  the  play,  but,  furthermore,  they  will 
give  life  sometimes  to  the  ensemble  somehow;  like  lit 
tle  eyes,  a  big  nose,  a  wide  mouth,  or  tousled  hair,  will 
confer  more  grace,  or  character,  or  passion  to  a  head 
than  would  Greek  regularity,  which  has  been  made  the 
dominant  type  of  beauty  because  it  is  necessary  to  estab 
lish  in  an  art  a  fixed  ideal;  after  which  every  author  may 
go  his  own  way  with  his  own  temperament,  and  upset 
tradition  if  he  is  strong  enough  to  do  it.  It  is  thus  that 
schools  are  founded  and  men  dispute,  which  is  not  a  bad 
way  to  kill  time,  for  it  has  its  longueurs,  as  we  say  at  the 
theatre. 

"  Now,  if  we  turn  from  incorrect  grammar  to  inaccu- 
[43  1 


APPENDIX 

racy  of  another  sort,  perhaps  the  style  of  M.  Scribe,  for 
example,  would  satisfy  you?" 

"  Certainly,  if  the  style  of  M.  Scribe  covers  a  thought. 
Of  what  odds  is  the  material  of  the  gown  if  the  woman 
is  beautiful?" 

"  It  is  through  his  form,  then,  you  tell  me,  that  M. 
Scribe  fails." 

That  is  an  error.  It  is  never  through  the  form  that  one 
fails,  but  through  the  depths.  Translations  are  the  proofs 
of  what  I  claim.  Every  day  we  admire  through  transla 
tions  foreign  writers,  who  have  no  reason  to  envy  the  style 
of  M.  Scribe,  because  the  thought  being  strong  and  solid, 
it  rises  to  view  athwart  this  form,  colorless  and  soft,  even 
as  high  mountains  pierce  through  the  mists  of  the  morn 
ing.  Think  like  Eschylus  and  write  like  M.  Scribe,  then 
no  one  will  ask  of  you  more.  Unfortunately,  or  fortu 
nately  rather,  this  discordance  is  impossible.  The  ex 
pression  will  be  always,  in  spite  of  yourself,  at  the  level  of 
the  thought;  exact  and  firm  if  the  thought  is  elevated, 
feeble  and  bombastic  if  the  thought  is  vulgar.  Elevation 
and  sincerity  are  wanting  in  M.  Scribe,  for  from  him  such 
expression  does  not  come;  being  unconvinced,  he  cannot 
be  eloquent.  A  valueless  wine,  a  cheap  bottle.  Besides, 
he  is  not  looking  for  comedy,  he  is  only  looking  for  the 
theatre;  he  does  not  wish  to  instruct  nor  moralize,  nor 
correct  people,  he  wants  to  amuse  them;  he  does  not 
seek  glory  which  immortalizes  death,  but  rests  contented 
with  the  success  that  popularizes  the  living,  and  with  that 
fecundity  that  brings  wealth.  Prestidigitator  of  the  first 
order,  exhibitor  of  conjuring  boxes,  he  shows  you  a  situ- 

[44] 


APPENDIX 

ation,  like  a  nutmeg,  makes  it  pass;  now  you  must  laugh, 
now  weep,  now  scared,  now  it's  cats,  now  dog,  through 
two,  three,  or  five  acts — and  you  will  find  it  out  in  the 
denouement.  It  was  always  the  same  with  him;  there  was 
nothing  to  say.  The  prose  with  which  he  accompanied 
these  tricks  of  pass-pass  were  uttered  for  the  purpose  of 
misleading,  of  watching  his  audience,  and  of  gaining  time 
for  the  promised  effect — the  moment  for  the  nutmeg  to 
become  a  .48  bullet  and  return  just  the  same  into  the 
juggler's  box. 

The  seance  over,  the  candles  extinguished,  the  nutmegs 
restored  to  their  trick-bag,  the  boxes  returned  to  their 
nest — one  inside  another — the  cat  and  the  dog  put  to  bed, 
the  voices  silent,  the  epigrams  flown,  there  remain  in  the 
spirit  or  soul  of  the  spectator  neither  idea,  reflection,  en 
thusiasm,  hope ;  neither  remorse,  agitation,  nor  happiness. 
The  auditor  has  looked,  listened,  and  been  puzzled;  he 
has  laughed,  cried,  and  has  passed  the  evening.  He  has 
been  amused,  which  is  a  good  deal,  but  he  has  learned 
nothing.  He  mentions  to  somebody  something  or  other, 
perhaps,  but  has  not  thought  enough  about  it  to  make 
it  a  subject  of  conversation.  In  short,  M.  Scribe  has  all 
the  qualities  which  denote  talent,  but  not  one  of  those  that 
proclaim  genius.  Three  times  his  figures  have  taken  on 
the  appearance,  not  of  real  life,  however,  but  of  the  heroic. 
These  were  when  Meyerbeer  lent  his  sovereign  breath. 
But  only  once  has  he  half  opened  the  door  of  the  temple 
and  surprised  the  mysteries  of  the  Good  Goddess.  He 
reached  high  comedy  in  putting  forth  his  "  Camarade 
rie/'  in  doing  which  he  had  as  much  reason  to  praise  as  to 

[  45  ] 


APPENDIX 

blame  himself.  He  proved  therein  that  he  might  have 
become  one  of  the  race  of  observers,  and,  by  devoting 
himself  more  and  craving  riches  less,  and  by  revering  art, 
he  might  have  been  a  great  man.  He  did  not  wish  it; 
may  his  wish  be  gratified. 

Nevertheless,  the  stage  owes  him  for  an  innovation 
altogether  unexpected,  which  proves  exactly  the  poetic 
measure  of  this  author.  Until  he  came,  love,  and  mar 
riage  with  the  loved  one,  had  been  the  final  reward  of  the 
hero  of  comedy.  The  poets  represented  the  heroine  as 
beautiful,  chaste,  passionate ;  in  a  word,  as  interestingly  as 
possible.  M.  Scribe  thought  he  ought  to  add  to  these 
qualities  a  charm  of  the  first  class,  from  his  point  of  view. 
So  he  added  the  three  per  cents — no  happiness  being 
probable  in  marriage,  which  crowns  everything,  if  the 
young  girl  does  not  bring  a  big  dot  to  the  young  man. 
And  this  was  so  exactly  the  ideal  of  the  public  to  which 
M.  Scribe  addressed  himself  that  it  promptly  recognized 
him  as  its  spokesman.  Therefore,  during  the  third  of  a 
century,  as  the  high  priest  of  this  bourgeoise  religion,  he 
said  mass  every  evening  at  the  altar  of  the  nimble  six 
pence,  turning  around  from  time  to  time  in  the  middle 
of  the  ceremony  to  say  to  his  flock,  his  hand  on  his 
gospel :  Ego  vobiscum. 

Collaborators,  pupils,  imitators,  and  speculators  have 
not  been  wanting  to  carry  on  this  work,  so  facile,  agree 
able,  and  remunerative,  while  all  the  time  that  it  violates 
public  taste  and  leads  serious  art  astray,  Scribe  thus 
worked  in  our  sociology.  Unfortunately,  the  master  wore 
us  out,  and  so  we  finished,  weary  of  his  colonels,  the  women 

1 46] 


APPENDIX 

widows,  the  pensionnaires  so  rich  that  their  dots  were 
hunted  like  a  chase,  his  artists  supported  by  bankers' 
wives,  the  croix  d'honneur  folk  dabbling  in  adultery,  the 
powerful  millionaires,  and  the  shop-girls  who  were  making 
queens  walk  as  they  wished.  The  need  was  felt  of  hearing 
some  common  sense,  something  that  might  light  up,  en 
courage,  and  console  the  human  species,  which  is  neither 
so  egotistic  nor  so  stupid  as  M.  Scribe  shows  it.  A  robust 
soul,  loyal  and  pure,  appeared,  and  "  Gabrielle,"  with  its 
simple  and  touching  action,  with  its  beautiful  and  noble 
language,  was  the  first  revolt  against  this  theatre  of  con 
vention.  The  husband,  intelligent,  paternal,  lyrical,  was 
exalted  upon  the  same  stage  where  he  had  been  laughed 
at  for  more  than  twenty  years  and  always  made  ridiculous, 
as  always  blind  and  always  deceived  by  an  amorous  wife. 

"  Why  this  side  issue  about  M.  Scribe  ?  "  you  will  ask 
me.  "  For  what  purpose  is  this  attack?  " 

I  do  not  attack  M.  Scribe;  nor  do  I  beat  any  big  drum 
before  my  own  barrack  to  seduce  you  from  entering  my 
neighbor's;  but,  given  this  question  of  business,  I  study 
and  explain  the  man  who  is  the  incarnation  of  it,  and  has 
pushed  his  trick  so  far  that,  as  I  have  said  above,  people 
sometimes  have  mistaken  it  for  the  art  itself.  No  one  has 
ever  known  better  than  M.  Scribe — without  conviction, 
without  naivete,  without  philosophic  purpose — how  to  put 
into  action  and  meaning,  if  not  a  character  nor  an  idea, 
at  least  a  subject,  or  a  situation  especially,  and  evoke  from 
it  logically  scenic  effects.  No  one  knew  better  than  Scribe 
at  the  first  encounter  how  to  assimilate  the  thought  of  the 
first  comer,  how  to  adapt  it  to  the  stage — oftentimes  in  the 

[47  ] 


APPE  N  D I  X 

proportions  and  in  a  sense  totally  opposed  to  the  com 
binations  of  the  first  author — utilizing  all,  from  the  dis 
positions,  the  debut,  the  name,  the  beauty,  the  ugliness, 
the  fatness,  the  leanness,  the  arms,  the  feet,  the  looks,  the 
color  of  the  hair,  the  elegance,  the  stupidity,  the  wit  of  the 
comedians — even  up  to  the  tastes,  passions,  prejudices, 
hypocrisies,  yea,  to  the  cowardice  of  the  public  that  he 
addressed  and  from  which  he  gained  his  fortune  and  his 
liberty.  He  is  the  most  extraordinary  improvisor  we  have 
had  for  the  theatre;  the  one  who  knew  best  how  to  set 
going  the  personages  that  did  not  exist.  He  is  the  Shake 
speare  of  Chinese  shadows. 

Well,  into  that  collection  of  four  hundred  pieces  that  he 
wrote,  alone  or  in  collaboration,  let  drop  "  II  ne  faut  jurer 
de  rien,"  or  "  Le  Caprice,"  or  "  II  faut  qu'une  porte  soit 
ouverte  ou  fermee  "  (these  were  the  little  comediettas 
of  a  poet  who  was  the  most  artless,  the  least  expert  at  the 
business)  and  you  will  see  all  the  Theatre  Scribe  dissolve 
and  volatilize,  like  mercury  in  a  heat  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  degrees ;  for  the  reason  that  Scribe  worked  for  the 
public  without  putting  into  his  work  anything  of  his  heart 
or  soul,  while  De  Musset  wrote  with  both  heart  and  soul 
for  the  soul  and  heart  of  humanity.  Hence  sincerity  en 
dowed  him,  without  even  his  suspecting  it,  with  all  the 
resources  of  the  business  which  constituted  the  only  merit 
of  the  other. 

Now  the  conclusion? 

It  is,  that  the  dramatic  author  who  shall  know  man  as 
did  Balzac  and  the  stage  as  did  Scribe  will  be  the  greatest 
dramatic  author  that  ever  lived. 

May,  1868. 

[  48] 


APPENDIX 


PRESS   NOTICES 

From  "  The  Stage  in  America,  1897-1899,"  by  Norman  Hap  good. 

"  Of  the  three  recen«t  American  attempts  to  make  a  fatal  end  ac. 
ceptable,  only  one  has  the  consistency  from  the  beginning  which  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  demands.  '  Barbara  Frietchie  '  and  '  Nathan  Hale  ' 
have  first  acts  of  frivolous  comedy,  and  waver  between  melodrama, 
tragedy,  and  comedy  throughout;  so  that  they  can  only  be  called  tragic 
for  want  of  a  better  caption.  The  third  and  only  true  tragedy  is  in 
one  act.  It  is  by  a  wholly  unknown  writer,  Horace  Fry,  and  its  dis 
covery  is  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Fiske.  It  is  n9t  easy  to  tell  how  much 
of  the  powerful  effect  was  due  to  the  playwright  and  how  much  was 
due  to  the  superb  acting  of  Frederick  de  Belleville  and  Mrs.  Fiske, 
but  in  any  reasonable  division  there  is  enough  to  reflect  glory  on  both, 
especially  since  it  is  so  rare  for  a  tragedy  to  be  written  in  America, 
and  since  this  little  piece,  by  the  simplicity,  force,  and  elevation  of 
the  feelings  depicted,  belongs  almost  clearly  to  that  domain.  If  the 
passions  depicted  have  been  high  and  simple,  if  the  essence  of  life 
seems  to  have  been  given  so  that  it  is  right  that  life  should  end,  we 
are  satisfied,  even  if  the  tears  stand  in  our  eyes;  and  this  is  tragedy. 
If,  as  in  '  Tess,'  our  attention  has  been  taken  up  with  details  —  bad  luck, 
misunderstanding,  and  misfortune  —  and  the  depths  of  the  soul  have  not 
been  freely  sounded  when  the  knell  comes,  it  is  not  tragedy,  but  rather 
what  is  known  as  '  a  disagreeable  play.'  '  Little  Italy  '  was  worthy  of 
the  brilliant  acting  it  inspired.  .  .  .  Aided  by  Mr.  De  Belleville's 
deep  emotion,  as  the  husband,  the  protagonist  (for  it  is  part  of  the 
nobility  of  the  play  that  he,  and  not  the  escaping  lovers,  are  the  centre), 
and  by  the  direct  passion  of  Mrs.  Fiske's  picture,  this  little  piece  had 
in  it  such  rare  worth  that  it  ought  often  to  be  revived." 

From  "  The  Boston  Transcript,"  January  31,  1899. 

"  At  last  we  have  a  play  which  combines  the  brevity  and  terseness 
of  one  act  with  all  the  dignity  and  complete  authority  of  the  conven 
tionally  formed  five-act  tragedy.  Mr.  Fry  has  accomplished  no  insig 
nificant  task  with  his  '  Little  Italy,'  and  he  has  moreover  accomplished 
it  in  no  insignificant  manner.  His  plot  is  both  realistic  and  poetic  in 
the  extreme.  His  heroine,  living  in  the  Italian  Quarter  of  New  York, 
is  overcome  by  an  irresistible  feeling  toward  her  own  sunny  Italy,  and 
when  a  former  lover  sings  below  her  window  in  the  street  she  induces 
her  husband  to  call  him  up  that  she  may  learn  his  song.  Left  alone, 
they  resolve  to  return  to  Italy  together,  but  the  wife  is  overtaken  by 
an  accident,  explained  by  a  very  graphic  theatrical  device,  and  is  brought 
back  dead  in  her  lover's  arms. 

"  This  tale  is  condensed  with  unusual  skill  into  a  play  occupying 
less  than  half  an  hour,  and  is  throughout  perfect  in  its  construction, 
clear  and  forcible  in  dialogue,  and  thrillingly  tragic  in  its  effect.  Its 
action  does  not  halt  for  a  moment,  and  pursues  its  course  as  swiftly 
and  relentlessly  as  the  heroine  herself  rushes  blindly  and  irrevocably 
to  her  doom.  Mr.  Fry  has  the  power  of  creating  an  impalpable  and 
pervasive  atmosphere  by  the  simplest  means  known  to  playcraft.  He 
does  not  lay  on  his  colors  indiscriminately  and  with  no  other  purpose 
than  to  suggest  Italy  and  the  Italian  people  superficially,  but  he  in- 


[49] 


APPENDIX 

spires  each  character  with  a  dominating  soul  which  indicates  feeling 
and  temperament  much  more  strongly  than  mere  costuming  and  scenic 
accessories  can  do.  His  '  Little  Italy  '  bears  from  the  outset  the  stamp 
of  fatality,  and  creates  an  effect  equivalent  to  that  arising  from  Thomas 
Hardy's  work  at  its  best. 

"  But  '  Little  Italy  '  is  to  be  all  the  more  highly  commended  for  the 
opportunity  it  gives  to  show  Mrs.  Fiske's  art  in  yet  another  phase. 
Her  Giulia  is  a  veritable  creation.  She  realizes  the  picturesque  and 
merely  pictorial  element  in  the  woman's  character  so  perfectly  that  we 
seem  to  see  and  to  understand  her  before  she  utters  a  word.  And 
when  she  speaks  she  lays  the  woman's  heart  open  before  us.  ... 
Once  again  let  us  say  that  Mrs.  Fiske's  greatest  triumph  in  '  Little 
Italy  '  is  that  she  visualizes  the  woman  so  thoroughly  that  we  can  see 
into  her  very  soul.  No  lover  of  the  dramatic  art  need  hesitate  for  a 
moment  over  the  problem  as  to  whether  he  ought  to  see  Mrs.  Fiske." 

From  "  The  New  York   World,"  March  31,  1899. 

"  A  one-act  tragedy,  called  '  Little  Italy,'  by  Horace  B.  Fry,  which 
was  performed  last  night  by  Mrs.  Fiske  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre, 
may  be  set  down  as  one  of  the  genuine  successes  of  the  year.  It  held 
a  large  audience  spell-bound  from  beginning  to  end  with  its  rapid 
accumulation  of  fine  dramatic  emotions. 

"  Curtain-raisers,  as  a  usual  thing,  are  either  harmless  trifles  or  else 
incoherent,  undeveloped  plays,  carrying  no  conviction.  '  Little  Italy  ' 
is  neither  one  nor  the  other.  It  is  an  intense  and  finished  work  of 
art;  with  nothing  essential  left  out." 


From  "  New   York  Evening  Sun,"  March  31,  1899. 

Fiske  scored  a  new  triumph  last  night,  and  a  new  p '    . 
Horace   B.    Fry,    gained   his   first   hearing.      The  only   wonder  of  it   all 


Mrs.  Fiske  scored  a  new  triumph  last  night,  and  a  new  playwright, 
ice   B.    Fry,    gained   his   first   hearing.      The  only   wonder  of  it   all 
is  why  Mrs.  Fiske  should  have  kept  this  remarkable  play,  '  Little  Italy,' 


from  the  public  until  the  very  fag-end  of  her  season  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue.  To  say  that  '  Little  Italy  '  is  the  best  one-act  play  that  New 
York  has  seen  in  years  is  putting  the  matter  too  mildly.  Within  the 
short  half-hour  which  it  takes  to  play  it,  Mr.  Fry  manages  to  concen 
trate  a  tremendous  amount  of  pathos  and  of  passion.  And  as  an  artistic 
production  it  takes  rank  as  a  gem.  As  for  Mrs.  Fiske,  she  was  com 
pletely  metamorphosed.  It  took  minutes  for  the  audience  to  realize 
that  the  dark,  squatty,  broad-limbed  woman  with  despair  in  her  eyes 
was  really  that  slim,  intense  little  parcel  of  nerves  and  intellect  in  a 
new  disguise.  And  yet  it  was  not  her  disguise  alone  that  made  her 
performance  so  uncommon.  Both  she  and  Mr.  De  Belleville,  who 
played  her  husband,  seemed  to  have  reached  down  to  the  very  soul  of 
these  two  Italians  and  to  have  laid  them  bare. 

"  It  is  rarely  indeed  that  any  audience  witnesses  such  superb  per 
formances  as  these  two  artists  gave  in  this  little  play  last  night.  The 
play  itself  is  as  concentrated  and  intense  as  '  Cavalleria.'  " 


[so] 


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